


on the eye of the sky

by crimsonepitaph



Series: Soldiers Verse [10]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Fights, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26357311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: Jared and Jensen work through their issues - but it proves more complicated than they would like.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: Soldiers Verse [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/786189
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	on the eye of the sky

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note #1:** Title is a lyric from Deep Purple's _Stormbringer_.
> 
> **Author's note #2** The patience borgmama1of5 has to read my stories before I send them out into the world is much appreciated - thank you!!

****JENSEN** **

One good talk doesn’t a relationship make, Jensen finds out.

He and Jared find themselves in the same setting, going back and forth on the same issues, from the same sides and with equal stubbornness to give in fully.

Jensen raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. “You know what, Jay? I’m tired of this shit. It seems like we’re always doing the same thing. Talking. Freaking out. And it’s the same, you know? You being too cavalier with injuries, me frustrated that there always seems to be something hanging over us, this pressure…”

Jared raises an eyebrow. “Have you thought about where that pressure comes from?”

Jensen doesn’t say _you_ because that would be unfair. But it would not be totally incorrect.

“See, Jensen, you have these expectations. About me. About what life - with me and without - “ Jared says, pointedly, not missing the chance to take a shot at Jensen fretting over his own decisions, ”…what it should look like. And only ever so often do you accept what we truly have.”

That’s not true.

Is it?

It’s true, Jensen wishes life were different. That he and Jared were magical creatures, bulletproof, unshakable in their convictions, rational, feeling only the right emotions, and they grew old in the field, laying down their lives in service of others, voluntarily, peacefully, and accepting of their run.

So Jensen might be living in dream world. Sometimes.

And, yeah, measured against that, the ups and downs of reality are frustrating, a marathon with never-ending obstacles that he has to overcome.

Did he say he’s tired?

He’s tired of working at it. Of _feeling_.

Lately, it’s been only the bad stuff. And even when it was good, afterwards it only reminded Jensen of all he can’t have.

“Jared…”

Padalecki looks at him, not committing to any specific facial expression. One second, there’s a glint of anger in his eyes. The next, his lips purse into a thin line, stopping words that Jensen needs to hear.

“I’m trying, Jensen.”

It’s quiet.

“I know,” Jensen replies.

Unfortunately, this time, as much as Jensen hates to admit it - Padalecki’s right. He isn’t the problem. Jensen is.

It’d be nice to have a reset button. Scrape everything that’s happened, that’s been said, off the table. If Jensen could find the energy to fight.

But tonight, he doesn’t.

The words hang in the air. Their emotions remain threads in the air, weaving intricate patterns indelicately cut off when they get close.

Padalecki stays there. Leaning against the wall, glass in his hand.

Jensen gets up from his seat at the table.

He leaves to take a shower.

Everything passes. It’s not the end if it’s not alright.

He’s believed that until now. Strongly.

But when you’re down, when you’re in the thick of it, like Jensen is now, it seems impossible.

  


****JARED** **

The dreams become less clear. Less specific.

_There’s something so simple about a bullet hitting someone’s chest._

_Crack. Pop._

_A shout. Maybe._

_Blood._

_Silence. Empty. Nothing._

_Jared often imagines it. Him as the shooter. Him as the victim._

Jared wakes up with a start, confused.

It takes a few seconds to understand that he’s safe.

Cortese’s right. Maybe he doesn’t want to die.

But he sure as hell wants to kill something inside him.

He drags himself to the shower. Leaves a post-it on the edge of the key bowl.

_Two day endurance drills with the recruits. The hills. No signal. Good luck with today’s meeting._

Yesterday’s fight still plays at the back of his mind.

But, still.

  


****JENSEN** **

“You know, he’s always - “ Jensen doesn’t know what Jared is, _always._ He’s… _Jared_. Sergeant Padalecki. He’s the love of Jensen’s life and the man who can - and has - inflicted the most pain on Jensen.

Unintentional.

But constant.

Moments that are too much, like when he told Jared he was quitting the team, and Jared simply left, didn’t talk to Jensen for days. Those are seeping wounds that won’t be healed with a middle of the night talk. And others, which Jensen doesn’t know if he can fully attribute to Jared, because it’s him that worries, it’s him that hates to love the part of Padalecki that puts others before himself, that is ready to give himself to a higher purpose.

He can’t change that. And maybe he doesn’t even want to.

“It’s so difficult sometimes,” Jensen summarizes his thoughts out loud. “There are some thing neither of us wants to budge on, and when those come to a head - it makes it seem like working on our relationship to go forward is impossible.”

Beaver purses his lips. “You know, there’s more ways than one to surpass a blockage.” Then, a pause. He continues before Jensen can speak again. “How’d you say you deal with these moments?”

Jensen laughs without humor. “Yelling at each other, throwing things at the wall.”

_Hitting._

Jensen looks down, any trace of a smile, even a sarcastic one, gone. “I - I hit him last time we talked.”

“And?” Beaver asks, without missing a beat. No inflection.

What the fuck?

I mean, Jensen isn’t the relationship expert, but he’s pretty sure punching your significant other is not acceptable, in any context.

“I ain’t saying what you did was right, Ackles,” Beaver explains, patient. “But it happened. You say sorry.”

“I did.”

He thinks. Maybe. In his own words. Jared knows, doesn’t he?

Beaver nods. “Good.”

“But -”

What does he do with this feeling, with this label he’s stamped unto himself without meaning to? He’s the guy that hits his partner. That’s who he has become.

He says as much.

“Sergeant, you ain’t that guy. You’re the guy that sees his partner as an equal, as a strong man, a soldier that understands the language. Hell, if you settled a score with a friend like this, you wouldn’t think twice about it.”

“Yeah,” Jensen mumbles, thinking. Is it, though? The same thing? “I didn’t want to hurt him…I just - it was anger, and it was … I didn’t know how else to get through to him.”

“It was an explosive moment,” Beaver agrees. “Sergeant Ackles, I’m going to say something, and you ain’t gonna like it.”

“Shoot.”

Beaver raises an eyebrow. “Well, I’d say, based on what you’re telling me in these sessions, that when you experience strong emotions, you manifest them physically.”

“What does that mean?”

“You throw things, you become aggressive,” Beaver explains.

Jensen says nothing. What can he? It’s true.

“To an extent, it’s normal. Can’t expect people who spend half of their life in war zones to sit down and constructively discuss feelings whenever something happens. Training goes against it. They teach you to make split second decisions, without emotions playing into it. So they go down. There’s no place for it in the field. But they come out, too, Sergeant, these things you’ve felt, and while you’ve become very good at compartmentalizing, when you open the gate, they ain’t crawling one at a time, they come flooding.”

Jensen leans back on the beige leather couch, crossing his arms. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“Then what?” he asks, purposefully ambiguous, not ready to commit to any course of action.

Beaver grins. “You say to hell with it, and let them come.”

“You just said - “

“There’s a difference between feeling something and on top, feeling bad about feeling it, which is what you’ve been doing. Control doesn’t come from refusing.”

Jensen ponders that. Sounds logical. And liberating.

But he’s afraid.

What’s gonna come out, how much of it, if he isn’t pushing against the door, trying to keep it in?

“One would hope you’d avoid the domestic abuse charges in the future, but, think about something physical to do with Sergeant Padalecki.”

Jensen smirks.

“Ah, hell, Ackles, not that way,” Beaver says, rolling his eyes. “Something to help you settle your discussions. Think about it - your relationship started after a scuffle. You bet on it. Doesn’t that tell you something? Talking’s good, but both of you have this other language you communicate in, a physical, more direct one. See how to use that to your advantage. Talk with Padalecki, try to find a way to use it.”

Yes. That’s why Jensen comes to Beaver.

To hear encouragements to fight with Padalecki.

“Christ,” Jensen exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “With each day that passes, we get further and further away from normal.”

“Normal’s not an option, Ackles,” Beaver smiles. “There ain’t anything in this world but doing the best you can with what you’re given.”

Probably true.

That does not mean Jensen doesn’t want to let loose with the expletives.

Beaver puts his right hand on his knee, leans forward. “Good, now, let’s talk strategy. Don’t expect you to face this without giving you some tools for it.”

For the rest of the hour, it’s mostly _how do you really feel_ , and _what do you want to do when you’re like that_ , and _here’s what you could do_ , and _do you think you can try it_?

And _see you tomorrow, at the soldiers’ meeting._

By the time he gets out of Beaver’s office, Jensen’s more determined than ever to work on himself, but also, completely exhausted.

Mentally.

He shoots a message to Jared, even though he knows he won’t get it.

_Beaver done. Going to work. Don’t kill Ford._

It’s the comfort of it.

When he goes to work, he’s surprised to find that he relaxes. Everything seems to come easy. The decisions he has to make are clear.

Jensen, for all he begrudges Padalecki for his lack of ability to deal with the world outside of the field, finds himself to be more and more similar. They’ve both made symbols out of the Army. Protective mental shields. If they were good at it…

However, that’s not all that there is anymore.

They want things for themselves, for each other, for them, as a pair.

And it’s not as easy as one would believe to build them. But Jensen takes comfort in the determination they both feel to work at it.

  


****JARED** **

Ford follows him. Dutifully, though Jared can hear the racing thoughts even though he’s a good few feet away, in front. The recruit hasn’t asked where they’re going, why Jared’s separated him from the group for a few hours, while the others are resting. Jared could have had a psychopath moment, taken this kid out to the woods to kill and scalp, and all Ford would have said was, _If you think it’s necessary, sir._

Jared needs to have a talk with him about that.

“Ford?”

“Yessir, ” the kid answers, out of breath.

They’re going up a hill, to a clearing Jared’s prepared just for this.

“Lesson number one,” Jared starts, though it’s probably lesson two hundred thousand twenty seven, “learn to ask questions.”

“What?”

“Doesn’t make you a bad soldier to ask why you’re doing something.”

“Yessir.”

“No.”

Ford stops. “No…what?” He furrows his brows, puts his hands on his hips, concentrates on taking deep breaths. Sweat’s running down his forehead, thin layer of material in his t-shirt sticking to his chest, damp spots forming around the neck and trailing down from the armpits.

Obsessive running’s gotta be good for something.

This is it.

Jared barely feels the hike. Ford looks at him like he’s an alien.

Though that may be because of the new approach Jared’s trying. It mainly focuses on communicating and, well, being explicit.

“Stop with the yessirs,” Jared says, grinning.

“Uh - “

“Ask me something you wanted to ask since I told you to come.”

“Sir, I…the Army…I know it ain’t like that.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“Ford, Army’s one thing. Training for being in the Alpha or Bravo teams…that’s another. You can’t follow blindly. Not if you want to get anywhere, in any case.”

“But - “

“That’s the whole mantra of the Army? To follow orders?”

Yeah, Jared knows. He also knows that the only thing that helped him get to where he is was doing what he thought was right, even when others disagreed, thought he was crazy, branded him too young, too sensitive, too impulsive.

“I’m not saying - “ Jared starts again, stumbling over his words. Fuck him, this is hard. Whatever was wrong with the thousand push-ups? Was that not a proper way of teaching? Damn Cortese for contesting it and putting him in a position to give speeches.

_Speeches._

“Look, Ford. I ain’t sure that I’m the best to give you advice on this.” After all, he’s barely functional. “But I can tell you, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Use it.”

Ford just looks at him, like he’s speaking an alien language.

He probably is.

Jensen has the right assessment of his communication skills.

“Okay.”

Jared grins. “Okay.”

He’s on the verge of turning around, continuing their hike, when Ford’s voice sounds out again.

“Why’d you bring me out here?” Before Jared can answer, he adds, “Me, specifically.”

Jared thinks about the answer to that for a moment.

“Because Everett and I would throw each other off a cliff before ever coming to a mutual understanding.”

Okay, he should elaborate on that.

“Lesson number two, Ford. Do what you’re good at. Work hard as hell to improve at what you aren’t. But don’t put others in danger because you want to prove something.” Jared smiles at a confused Ford. It’s a nice theory. Jared isn’t sure if he’s good at abiding by it. “I asked my partner to have a talk with Everett. He’s more…level-headed. It’s a better fit.”

The kid frowns. “Better fit for what?”

“Progress.”

Ford stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. “I still don’t get it.”

Jared takes a deep breath, reaching a breaking point in the explaining part of today’s drill-sergeant-ing. He turns around, starts walking again, following the abrupt trail. He talks, but he does so with the trees and all the vegetation in front of him.

It feels less intimidating.

If he voices his convictions towards nothing, then they aren’t stepping stones for people under his authority. They’re just sounds, floating over a green blanket of leaves.

“You’re both good, soldier. But you need more to be exceptional. Everett’s impulsive, sometimes careless in his decisions. You’re the opposite. You think too much. You give too much importance to things that in the end, don’t come to matter.”

There’s no reply from behind.

Just footsteps. Ragged breathing.

The pace Jared’s setting is intentional. Hard. It would be a bad thing for Ford to consider that Jared’s going easy on him.

“How do I change that?” Ford asks, half a question. He doesn’t quite believe that he can.

He’s right.

“You can’t. You learn from Everett. And _you_ teach _him_ to stop and think. And you trust me.”

Feeding the bullshit of major changes isn’t in Jared’s job description. But _habits_ , small things - that they can work on. Persevere.

“Where are we going?” is what Ford replies with to Jared’s decree.

Jared rolls his eyes. Balls his hands into fists.

“You’ll see when we get there. Now stop talking.”

A pause.

“You told me to ask questions.”

“Good ones.”

A huff.

Progress, indeed.

He brings Ford to a clearing where he’d set up targets out of cardboard, simple red circles with a black dot in the middle. He gives Ford a Glock. Tells him to hit center, on all six.

“That’s it?” Ford asks, incredulous. “That’s what you wanted to show me?”

Target practice isn’t exactly something that Ford was lacking.

“Lesson number three - two was to learn what you’re good at. Three is: never assume that’s what you’re going to do in the field.”

“What?”

Jared comes to stand a little to the side of the farthest target from Ford - maybe thirty feet from the recruit, a feet for Jared and the target.

“You hit dead center. Do it again, with me standing here.”

Jared sees the panic rising in Ford’s eyes. The panic of repeat - he’d been the one to nick Jared in the arm previously.

“You’re a good shot, Ford. Take it.”

The recruit lowers his gun.

“I can’t.”

“You were able to when I wasn’t standing here.”

“It isn’t a clear shot.”

Jared just looks at Ford. “It is.”

Ford raises the gun again.

He shoots.

Center.

Jared grins. Comes to stand besides a closer target from Ford. He’s closer, too. It’s still a good shot - he isn’t obscuring any part of the target. He’s just near it.

“Again,” he orders Ford.

He complies, not without a few seconds to steady himself first.

Then, the grand finale.

Jared comes to stand almost in front of the same target.

Ten feet from Ford. He’s covering half of the circle.

“Take the shot,” he pushes.

Ford shakes his head.

“I can’t.”

“Would I stand here if you couldn’t?”

Ford steadies his gun. Takes aim.

Jared tries not to breathe.

This - this is the moment for a decision.

_To be or not to be_.

Why are the most random things - Shakespeare, Tom and Jerry, Hotel California - popping up in Jared’s head at the most inopportune of moments?

He sees Ford’s mind racing.

Jared waits.

Looks at the gun.

“I can’t - “ Ford says, deflating. “I can’t. There’s too little margin for error.”

He almost says _sorry_.

Jared grins.

“Good,” he replies, stepping forward.

Ford frowns. “Good?”

“Last lesson for today, Ford. Know what you’re good at, but be clear about your limits. Learn what are you comfortable with, and adjust your approach accordingly.”

Ford ponders that for a moment.

“You’d have taken the shot?”

Jared shakes his head. “Not now, at least,” he replies, looking at his hands. “But I’d trust a few people to take it.”

Like Jensen.

“You trusted me not to, ” Ford says, probably not convinced that Jared isn’t crazy.

“I’m wearing Kevlar, Ford. I _hoped_.”

Hey, it’s a compromise.

Jensen would be proud of him.

Ford just stands and looks at Jared, bewildered.

Mission accomplished.

  


****JENSEN** **

The first thing Jensen sees when he gets to the old gym is Beaver, in his usual checkered gray suit, white shirt under the vest, square glasses too far down his nose for Jensen to believe anything else that they’re there to complete the show.

“Sergeant Ackles.”

“Doctor Beaver,” Jensen greets, nodding towards the medic.

“How are you today?” Beaver asks, and Jensen can’t figure out if it’s a genuine question or he’s going down a mandatory checklist.

“Fine.”

“Ready?”

Jensen puts his jacket around the back of a plastic chair from the circle of them that was prepared. He shrugs. “I don’t know if you can call it that.”

Beaver smiles, almost imperceptible. It’s rare, to see him do that.

“You’ll do fine,” he says, and Jensen almost believes him. “Wouldn’t have let Jeffrey pull you into this if I thought you weren’t going to do a good job,” he adds.

Jensen frowns. “Morgan talked to you?”

“The colonel talked with every doctor responsible for the soldiers involved in the program.”

“Seemed like a last-minute kind of decision to me,” Jensen scoffs. “Pulling us in.”

Beaver shakes his head. “It wasn’t. Jeffrey’s been working on this for a long time. Well, ain’t talking about this, particularly, but some kind of program where soldiers teach soldiers, where he designs some kind of support system around people under his command.”

First, Jensen wonders just how well Beaver gets along with Morgan to call him Jeffrey. He doesn’t know why he fixates on that detail. But hearing about Morgan’s thought process, about his dreams and wishes - hell, that’s like finding out what Bigfoot had for breakfast: simple details of a normal life regarding a mythical creature.

“I’d ask why, if I thought you’d give me a straight answer,” Jensen says, heading for the rudimentary coffee machine.

Beaver probably isn’t _allowed_ to divulge more than he has.

Then again, Beaver doesn’t strike Jensen as the man who is allowed something. Beaver just does. The picture of a lovely grandpa, the sharp and, well, _devious_ mind of a man whose word is law.

“Everybody’s got their demons, Ackles, ” is what Beaver concludes on, sidestepping the half-question.

Yeah.

That’s why they’re here, aren’t they?

People start pouring in soon after that. Two soldiers Jensen’s often seen around. They’re on Bravo team - Collins. Tahmoh. Jensen remembers them vaguely from that first meeting, back when he was a newbie, when Danneel offered him lemonade with the biggest smile on her face, like that’s where they were all supposed to be, like she couldn’t be happier to see him complete the picture. When stories of Chad and spiders were unwoven from the spool of memories, when Chris asked him if he would follow Padalecki.

Paper airplanes.

Nostalgia coloring his own remembrance of things, a fading warmth in his chest, a sadness at what the future would bring.

One more. Then another.

Beaver looks at Jensen while they wait for the official meeting hour.

He shouldn’t be worried. Jensen isn’t going to make a run for it.

He isn’t crazy about a big audience, but, in the end, that’s what they’re here for. Helping as many people as they can, and if they went out on a limb to hear Jensen out, well, he’s sure as hell going to rise to the challenge.

But, as it turns out, the warrior dance isn’t necessary.

Beaver leads the meeting, asking the soldiers why they had come. There’s jokes, shrugs, mumbles and half-truths, real reasons looming over their heads, understood but never spoken. Then he asks why Jensen. Why they’d come to his meeting.

That’s the only moment when things get complicated.

Collins, calm, taking in everything that happens around him without emotion ever crossing his features, answers.

“We have a long standing discussion regarding the reasons you left the team,” he tells Jensen, holding his gaze. “We wish to understand.”

Well, if Collins’ formal address throws Jensen a bit off kilter, Tahmoh’s _big, bad guy_ stance evens things out - back low in the chair, legs spread out, arms crossed in front of him, raised eyebrow and smug grin completing the picture.

He seems to take joy in the interaction between Collins and him.

“My heart wasn’t in it anymore,” Jensen replies, not pausing too think too much.

Collins frowns. “You took an oath.”

But he doesn’t say it like Jared had. He seems genuinely confused about Jensen’s reasoning.

“I - “, _shit_ , Jensen mentally adds, wishing to be anywhere but here, discussing about this, “Sometimes you can’t do something, no matter how much you want to. There are guys who dedicate themselves to the oath you’re talking about. I’m not one of them. I want a life outside of it.”

Does Jensen wish he was one of those soldiers?

Maybe.

Sometimes.

“There are… _guys_ , and _women_ , Sergeant Ackles,” Collins corrects him. “But can’t you have a life within the job?”

“Can you?” Jensen asks.

Collins pauses for a moment.

“Depends on what you call a life,” he answers, shrugging.

Tahmoh intervenes.

“So, what, you’re playing therapist now? Puppet master down in logistics?”

Ah, yes. The rose-tinted glasses fall off. Jensen remembers both Tahmoh and Speight’s comments that afternoon, both all too eager to draw the wrong conclusions about Jared and Sandy.

Jensen doesn’t answer Penikett’s snide remarks.

It isn’t worth it.

He’s pretty sure the man wouldn’t understand.

A voice - a woman’s - sounds out. She’d been quiet until now.

“Corporal Shahi, sir.” Brunette, small, taking as much space as Tahmoh with her presence. “That’s what I wanted to ask. How do you make a transition like that? My assignment’s been switched, patrol in peaceful zone to damage control in all-out war area, and I’m having trouble setting my mind to it. I’d like to come back home to my kids. Thought you might have some insight.”

Dear Lord, let the Corporal come home with him, and sit down with Padalecki, teach him these pillars of eloquence. Problem. What she wants of Jensen. Solution.

“I don’t know, “ Jensen answers honestly, throwing a brief look towards Beaver, who nods. “Do you want to quit?”

The corporal shakes her head. “No. I like what I do, and I don’t mind the fight. But I also don’t want to leave my kids without a mother.”

“Tried switching back?”

“Sergeant, with all due respect, do you think I’d have come here if I didn’t try all the reasonable solutions beforehand?”

“I don’t know if I should be offended because you implied that this isn’t reasonable.”

Shahi grins.

“I did not mean it like that. I’m just of the opinion that talk doesn’t do much.”

“Then why’d you come?”

“I told you - exhausted all the other options, and I still can’t set my mind right.”

Jensen pauses for a moment, thinks.

“I do think you’re right, Corporal. Talk isn’t going to do you much good. “

Hopefully nobody expected Jensen to be the all-wise guru.

“Can’t tell you much, but I can tell you that everything’s a choice. You have to make it and live with the consequences. I’ve quit, and I’ve got the moments with my partner I wanted, the quiet and lack of danger I craved for both of us. But I also have the thoughts of what should have been…and, well, the guilt.”

The last one - that’s a difficult admission.

But the only thing that Morgan had told them, had asked of them before handing them these assignments, was to be honest.

So Jensen is.

Corporal Shahi just looks at him.

She stays silent. Someone else asks something.

Beaver answers instead of Jensen.

“I’m putting my two cents in the Corporal’s hat, too, on this one. You ain’t what you want to be. You are what you are. You are what you do. Then, ask yourself what it’s worth, what you’re doing, and figure for yourself if it’s enough.”

Jensen realizes it’s true just as he says it.

He thinks about him and Jared, both trying so hard to define themselves in the aftermath of leaving the field. Talking. Labeling. Saying, _I am_.

But they’ve left out a central part.

What they _do._

They’ve listened to the commentary instead of watching the game.

Jensen thinks about how upset he is, at times, about who Jared is. About what that means for them. But he’d failed to consider what Jared does, what Jared’s been so adamant about Jensen understanding - he _tries_.

Sometimes it isn’t enough.

But what is?

It’s never perfect.

They were put here to help other soldiers, to share their experience.

Jared told him that it’s his perspective that gained something after his first meeting. And here Jensen is, finding himself in the same position. Eight people came. Eight different stories. And, well, a group of very young soldiers set on playing pranks, trying to rub Jensen’s arm like luck’s going to rub off, because, apparently, the man who’s been shot countless times and survived is the Army’s newest lucky charm.

And all Jensen can do is try, too.

Accept that he’s flawed. That the man in his mind, the rock that would stave off all of life’s waves, not flinching, that swore that would never suffer again after the loss of his brother - that isn’t him. He’s…human. He’s made good and bad decisions.

Quitting the team is the right one. In the long term. To build the life Jensen wants to.

It doesn’t feel like it.

It’s too much, too little. Guilt, and the boost the adrenaline gave to his self-esteem, now lacking.

But it’s on him.

To figure his own shit - with the help of Beaver, granted - and to find new ways to navigate his life now.

Because it is something worth doing.

Jensen looks at Beaver, who stays silent, drinks the coffee from the paper cup like it’s expensive liquor, one small sip at the time.

Of course he’d be content with himself.

He’d snuck a free therapy nugget to Jensen in the middle of the meeting where he’s supposed to lead the proceedings.

Fantastic.

  


****JARED** **

Jensen’s skin feels warm to the touch, a soft glide of his own fingers down Jensen’s bicep, towards his wrist, where he grabs, clinches with all his palm, pressures.

It’s not the most comfortable position, starting like this, from the side, but this - the quiet, the seconds that don’t accrue any unwanted words and feelings, the tiredness that only leaves space for _them_ , unthinking, unguarded…Jared isn’t missing it. The fact that Jensen closes his eyes, smiles slightly at Jared’s touch - these are the moments that assure Jared that not all is lost. That underneath the fighting there’s something solid they can always fall back on.

He shifts his body over Jensen’s, leaving a trail of kisses on his neck and jaw all the way up to his mouth. Jensen responds, hand coming to Jared’s back and his ass, trying to bring them closer.

“I want - “ Jared mutters, pulling back a little, trying to speak while Jensen grazes his teeth over his jaw, bites at the side of his neck slightly. “Jesus.”

Jensen stops.

“You want Jesus?”

Jared isn’t in the right frame of mind for banter. He untangles his right hand from between their bodies, brings it up to cup Jensen’s jaw. He holds his partner’s gaze, unflinching.

“I want to ride you.”

The humor in Jensen’s eyes fades. They darken, and Jensen’s palm clenches on Jared’s ass, Jensen’s body thrusting forward in an involuntary, minute movement that tells Jared all he wants to hear.

“I see Jesus, alright,” Jensen mumbles, throwing himself into a kiss tinged with the desperation to get it going, to get what’s been promised to him.

It’s just here, doing this, that he misses his long hair. The way Jensen used to grab it, pull just enough for Jared to feel the strength behind those muscular arms, the hint of _more_ -

Jared pulls back, pressing a hand on Jensen’s chest when he tries to follow him. He adjusts his position awkwardly to support himself on his knees, straightens up to pull at his t-shirt for the sexy part of the song and dance. That’s ruined when he realizes there’s no way to get out of his jeans in the position he’s in, so he throws his leg over, touches down on the floor, where he stands. He looks at Jensen while he unbuttons his jeans, pulls them down in one swift move, along with his boxers.

He toes off the jeans, and he moves towards the bed again, trying to resume his earlier position. But before he can do that, Jensen follows up on the grin he’d sporting by shifting to the edge of the bed, trying to sit up and already pulling at the hem of his t-shirt.

He wants to discard his clothes, like Jared had.

Jared doesn’t let him.

“Like this,” he says, shaking his head, coming closer, the difference in level, him standing up, Jensen on the bed, making him feel like the world’s at his fingertips, that it’s his choice when he kneels in the V of Jensen’s legs, sneaks a hand under his t-shirt, on his back, ridges of scars he’d forgotten about under his fingertips, the smell of Jensen enveloping Jared fully.

He unbuttons Jensen’s jeans, looking up at him all the while, pulls the zipper down, and Jensen knows, knows to raise just a little, enough to allow Jared to pull them down to reveal his hard cock, eager. But Jared only lets out as much bare skin out as necessary, not an inch more.

He stands again, motions for Jensen to get back on the bed, and they move in sync, Jensen laying on his back just as Jared straddles him, rough feel of Jensen’s half-pulled jeans on Jared’s bare skin turning Jared on so badly, he can hardly keep up with his plan.

He loves doing it like this, half-dressed, in control, seeing how Jensen shivers under his fingertips. He reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, wastes no time to prepare himself, to slide his hands up and down Jensen’s cock, watching how Jensen reaches for him, clasps his bicep, letting him know with changes in pressure when to speed up, slow down, _pull, tug -_

_Start_.

Sliding down Jensen’s hard cock, letting his eyes close as he feels himself be filled up…that’s a whole experience into itself, one that Jared rarely lets himself have. He feels open, and he feels Jensen in every nook and cranny of his being, he feels light and heavy all at the same time, thought and feeling, only anchor to reality the point of contact with Jensen.

He lets out a moan, leaning forward, hands on Jensen’s chest, trying to get support to go deeper, even as he starts to move, slow, wanting _everything_ , Jensen’s thick cock in its entirety, and so does Jensen, he wants _more, always more,_ making bruises on Jared’s hips where he holds him.

Jensen’s voice is low, scratchy, drawn out vowels. “Fuck, Jay - ”

He wants to say something, probably, something that can’t be put into words, because Jared’s trying to, in his head, trying to memorize this moment as an integral part of him, to prolong it, to understand, but he can’t, so he does the only thing he can, picks up the pace, almost slams down in his desperation to respond to the what Jensen’s left unvoiced.

It’s the sound of it, Jensen’s heavy breathing, the muted pleasure that brings Jared closer to the brink, and he tries a faster rhythm, then slows down, finds places in him where he needs Jensen, where the drawn out slide on his cock hits just right, sends shivers down his spine, makes his hands shake on Jensen’s stomach, then again, again, one more, until the feeling of it is all that there is, him and Jensen, the moment, ethereal, soft, drawn out, because Jared doesn’t want it, the climax, but this, this, _more and more_ , the promise that it’s always going to be like this, until -

Until Jensen sits up, more or less, shifting their position in a way that makes Jared feel him impossibly deeper, letting out a shout muted by Jensen’s precipitated kisses. He grabs Jared’s neck with his right hand, pushes against his back with the other, and Jared wants to tell him that this isn’t comfortable, that it hurts, but he can’t, because he likes it, because when Jensen thinks it isn’t enough, pushes violently against him, shoves Jared backwards, on his back, catching Jared’s knee under him, then, only then, he pushes back, grips hard on Jensen’s hand to stop him from moving, hard enough that there’ll be a bruise there in the morning.

Jensen looks confused for a moment.

Jared adjusts his positions, and there’s a pause, a moment where there’s silence, ragged breathing, Jared keeping Jensen at arm distance, Jensen looking at him, questioning, glint in his eyes that says that he likes this as much as Jared does.

When Jared lets his arm fall from Jensen’s shoulder, it takes only a second, not even that, for Jensen to get it, to slam into Jared hard enough that they slide across the sheets a few inches. And he doesn’t let up, rhythm sharp, precise, fast, only half-moans and muted whimpers on both their parts, Jared’s fist clenched, grabbing at something, _anything_ -

“Jen -”

He can’t, it’s too much, that spot that Jensen’s hitting, he -

“Oh, God,” Jared croaks out, not knowing if the pain is good or bad, if Jensen’s forceful rhythm is something he likes, but he doesn’t have time, not to think about it, not to decide, because his body seizes up, starts to shake on its own accord, a whole-body quiver that comes in waves, accompanied by a shout, his or Jensen’s, maybe, he doesn’t know, silver on black under his eyelids, surroundings fading, _nothing_ , feeling, the peak he doesn’t want to come down from.

Jensen thrusts one, two, more times, and Jared’s too sensitive to do anything but whimper, too weak to stop his legs to spasm. Jensen comes with a low moan, eyes closed, muscles in his arms contracting as he tenses up, giving out, or maybe it’s intentional, because his left hand comes around Jared’s neck, his jaw, and suddenly Jensen’s looking at him, and Jared doesn’t know, he hasn’t felt as close to someone as in this moment, and yet so far.

Jensen’s thoughts are hidden under a hardened, dark forest-green gaze, liquid in the dim light of the bedside lamp, but his touch is soft, even in the position of power he’s in, not choking Jared, just letting them both know he can. It’s gone, fluid movement when he lets his right arm fall, too, from where it had been supporting him, and he disentagles himself from the mess of limbs and sticky skin, intending to fall on the mattress to Jared’s left.

Except. Except there’s no bed there, they’ve moved to the edge, and Jared barely manages to put his arm around Jensen before he lets himself slump, exhausted. He uses all the strength he can muster after that thorough fuck to use the motion of Jensen’s body and throw him to the other side.

Not as smoothly, but Jensen lands on the mattress instead of the floor, only clipping Jared’s ankle with his knee and scratching at his exposed skin with the jeans as a price.

Both on their back, looking at the ceiling - a pause.

Settling.

Then, a laugh.

Jensen’s.

Small, genuine.

A hand on Jared’s stomach, a quick kiss on his temple, and a muttered _Thanks_.

  


****JENSEN** **

It’s strange, how the days pass. So many things crammed into them - so many _emotions_. Like this. The _working at it_ part of therapy. Talking with Everett isn’t on Jensen’s favorite things to do list, but, since it was a favor Jared asked of him, a rare one that came with an explicit _please_ , there’s not much choice in the matter.

They meet up for drinks at the Devil’s Own, because Jensen needs this to be as _normal_ as possible. From his own experience, the therapy, _tell me your childhood dreams vibe_ only makes people like them shudder with the possibility of being anything close to vulnerable.

So.

Alcohol and background music. False sense of security. Surprise question attacks.

Yes. Jensen’s excellent at this.

“Everett,” he greets the kid as he arrives, extending a hand towards him.

Everett takes it, wide smile plastered on his face. He’s dressed in worn dark gray jeans and a patchy black t-shirt, both slightly too large on his athletic frame. There’s a silver necklace that Jensen catches a glimpse of when Everett pulls at the t-shirt as he sits down.

“Sir,” he says, deferring easily to Jensen’s authority.

“How are you?” Jensen asks, cringing at the awkwardness lingering in the air.

“Fine.” A pause. Hands crossed on the table. “Sergeant Padalecki said you wanted to talk to me?”

Jensen smiles.

“Yes. He thought we’d hit it off.”

Everett raises an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Colin’s the one having a hard time,” Everett says, even tone, probably trying to voice his opinion without offending Jensen right off the bat. “I only came to Sarge ‘cause I don’t know how to help him.”

Jensen thinks about the right answer to that.

“Dylan - it’s Dylan, right?” Everett nods, frowning. Jensen continues. “Calm down. This isn’t because you’re doing something wrong. He’s just trying his best to help you become the best soldier you can be.”

Everett scoffs.

“By passing me off?”

Uh. Not that Jensen measures his worth based on that snide comment, but, ouch.

Everett seems to notice that he’s failed on _don’t piss off the higher-ranking guy in front of you in the first ten minutes_ task, and backtracks.

“That - shit. Sorry,” he adds, frustrated. “It’s just - isn’t this _his_ job?”

And there it is.

The reason why Jensen’s talking to Everett and not Padalecki.

“You know, speaking up is fine. But there’s a line.”

“Sarge made a career out of crossing it, ” Everett retorts, shrugging.

Jensen shakes his head, grinning. “Wrong. He’s made a career out of doing what he thinks is right, and not caring about what others think. But he never disrespected his superiors, not the way you’re doing.”

“Fuck that. Heard him talking to Colonel Morgan. Jokes he made…”

“That’s a ten year relationship, Everett. And, you never heard them talk shop. There’s a difference.”

The kid presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t like what he’s hearing, but he knows Jensen’s right. Still, he doesn’t give up.

“What’s the difference?” he presses on.

But that’s easy to answer.

“He earned it.”

Jensen leans back on the faux leather backrest, raises his right arm along the wooden edge of the booth. He smiles. Waits.

“Why me?” Everett finally says when he raises his gaze from his hands.

“Politically incorrect reasons we shouldn’t say out loud.” At the kid’s frown, Jensen adds, “Jared thinks you and Ford are the special snowflakes of your class. The ones with most chance to make it on the teams.”

“He ain’t acting like that. More like we’re on the bottom.”

Jensen laughs.

“Everett, learn to take nothing personally in the Army. What Padalecki does, that’s called discipline. Based on the last five minutes, I’d say you need it.”

The kid opens his mouth to reply. Then closes it again. Then nods, none too happy.

Good.

Progress.

But Jensen changes tactics. Subtlety isn’t the right approach for Everett. It’s the same that works with Jared sometimes - running at the wall full force, hope that it’s enough to get through to the other side.

“Here’s what we’re going to do from now on,” Jensen says, leaning forward. Excited. This is a project, a challenge, something that Jensen can build on. “First, you tell me why you’ve landed on this attitude, and how you’ve survived this long in the Army with your members intact.”

There’s more than one guy Jensen met along the way that wouldn’t have hesitated to throw down given the kind of responses Everett gives. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is Padalecki’s so similar to him, the side with a healthy dose of disrespect for authority.

“And then,” Jensen continues, “we meet, once a week. Tuesdays, after my meetings. We go to the gym. Spar it out.”

“Fighting? That’s your idea?”

No. It’s Beaver’s.

Jensen has coverage on this.

He isn’t exactly taking Beaver’s advice - he’d referred to Padalecki when he suggested this medieval form of communication - but Jensen thinks this feels right. Everett isn’t going to respond to soft talk. To the relative freedom Jared gives him on his attitude - they’re two parallel lines, Jared doesn’t know where to meet the kid, exactly because they share these similarities. Everett hasn’t learned to reign it in. Padalecki, for all Jensen jokes with him, isn’t impulsive, or careless, with his words or actions in the field.

There are many decisions Jensen hasn’t liked - but they were all products of a well-defined process of thought. It’s hard to admit, to accept with more than his rational side that Jared sacrificing himself, staying in that prison so they could get out - that was a strategic decision. They had little chance to escape otherwise, with the injuries, the soldiers they had saved, barely managing to walk upright. And the personal - they fight. But they don’t do it because Jared doesn’t think about Jensen. On the contrary, Jensen sometimes thinks Jared considers too much - generates something that snowballs down the mountain of _not doing, not being enough_.

In contrast, from what Jared’s told him, Everett’s bent on proving himself, and sometimes, in high-pressure situations, he makes the decisions that put him in the best light, and not the ones that are most appropriate, overall. It’s not intentional, Padalecki says, he doesn’t mean to hurt anyone - but that doesn’t change that in some cases, the outcome does.

That’s what happened with Jared’s latest “scratch”.

Everett leading the drill, putting himself in the position to coordinate, to be the whole picture guy, even though he’s the best shot of his class, and would have been better positioned to execute someone else’s vision on that one.

Jensen asked Jared why he let them choose. On a drill with live bullets.

_Because that’s exactly the kind of pressure I want to expose them to. And…I really thought he’d make the right decision._

Right.

Padalecki’s lucky that his recruits are only vaguely bad shots.

Trust.

Huh.

A light bulb goes off.

Not on this.

Thinking about Padalecki.

This, to Everett, he returns to with an order for two beers and a smile.

And a short excuse while shooting off a message to Padalecki.

_Everett’s a pain in the ass._

Then another.

_That’s why you passed him to me, isn’t it?_

Then, grinning.

_Text me when you finish with the doc. I’ll pick you up. You’re paying for this._

Then he listens to Everett talking about soccer, having completely missed the segue.

  


****JARED** **

Cortese looks at him, invites the words that threaten to spill even without prompting.

Jared leans back, presses his hands together, rests them on his knees.

“I…I know why I love it in the field, why it’s so good for me. Living with my father…with any addict, I’d imagine, is a lot of waiting. Thinking. Worrying about the next thing that is going to happen. And it will. I mean, it always did - it was just a question of when, and how bad it was going to be this time. You’d think that I felt most scared in the moments that I spent in hospitals and receiving phone calls to pick him up, because he’d fallen down somewhere. They weren’t…actually, those were the quietest moments. The most peaceful. I knew where he was, how bad was the situation - it was an _end_. What I had been anxiously waiting for - it had happened. The field’s the same. It’s the place where the worst happens, nine times out of ten, and even in the odd one out, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

It wasn’t a question on Cortese’s part. It was Jared’s own epiphany.

The psychiatrist continues for him. “But now, a life with a relatively normal job, seeing Jensen so often without outside threats, living as a family with him…”

Jared grimaces.

“It feels wrong to even hear it.”

“Being labeled as having a _normal_ life?”

“Yeah. It sounds wrong. I’m not - “

“Not _normal_?” Cortese laughs, and though not unkindly, she looks at Jared like he’d said the stupidest thing possible. “Fucking Christ, Sergeant, we aren’t normal, any of us. That’s something you have to understand. Not the soldiers, not the people outside this base…I’d venture to say that no one is. Or _normal_ has the wrong meaning.”

She takes a deep breath before she continues, a tad more calmly, less empathetic. “We are so different. We all deviate from the straight line you imagine _normal_ to be. Most of the people on this planet have _something_. A fear. A past, a lot of mistakes, sadness, things they don’t do, ways in which they try. Walk by people anywhere, and I guarantee you the story you tell yourself about them is the rose-colored glasses one.”

Jared understands. Having a story. But it doesn’t change the fact that he feels that he’d failed at being the intended protagonist of his.

So many people had it worse. He had a roof over his head, enough money from his mom’s inheritance to tide them over until he could work, enough to buy food, clothes, school supplies. Looking back, beyond the drunk company, few months were as bad as everyone would imagine.

So - he hates the sob story. He didn’t have it that bad.

But then, why is he so… _wrong_?

It doesn’t add up.

Well, it doesn’t, unless you account for something _inside_ , inherently him, some broken brain mechanism.

He doesn’t know how to tell all this to Cortese.

Not when there are moments - minutes, hours, sometimes even days, when he does feel _normal_. Whatever that is. When the pressure lifts. When being himself is enough. When he isn’t afraid Jensen’ going to leave as soon as he sees - when he realizes that Jensen’s seen all there is to see, that Jared had hit rock bottom beside him, and Jensen was still there, even at Jared’s most vulnerable, when Jared felt least like himself, Jensen was there to remind him who he is.

Hopping on that train of thought, Jared’s brain decides to pose a more interesting question - is he worthy of Jensen’s love? And can he love Jensen back equally as selflessly, as generously, as kindly?

“Sergeant?”

Cortese’s voice seems far away, cutting through the dialogue with himself.

“Yeah.”

“What’s happening? What are you thinking of?”

“Nothing,” Jared lies. Cortese purses her lips. “Everything,” he amends.

“Right,” the doctor acknowledges, no inflection in her voice. Jared sees her taking a few moments. Then, she begins talking again. “I’m sure I’ve said this before, but I don’t think you’ve heard it, so I’m going to try to put it in the context you’ve created.”

Oh, Jared can’t wait to hear this.

He still hasn’t gotten used to the _magic bullet_ analogy.

“When you went on a mission - you thought about the worst possible things that could happen, right? That’s what you said.”

Jared raises an eyebrow, not sure where this is going. “Right.”

“But you prepared.”

“Huh?”

“You prepared for the different outcomes. Mission goes this way, that - you had an answer.”

Well, yeah. That’s what made Jared a good soldier and leader. He says as much.

“So let’s get this straight, worrying a whole lot and planning for it were the qualities that made you so valuable in the army.”

“I wouldn’t - “

“I would. Because what you don’t seem to get is that worrying - thinking so much, thinking about _everything_ , is not, in itself, bad. Only when it overpowers the reality of it all. But you’ve shown the ability, time and time again, to sort it out - because you can tell me that you loved being in the field because your fears were met, but that’s not true. Or it is. Why you did so good - it’s because you’ve labeled them as normal. Having them out there. Everyone is scared facing a gun, right? When they’re about to raid a known insurgent base, with a man to every three of them?”

“There’s that word again.”

_Normal_.

“Sergeant. Everyone is scared of the things life throws at us. “

Jared shakes his head. “Not true.” And, because Cortese threatened in one of their earlier meetings that she will classify him under speech impaired if he doesn’t arrive at a point where he talks more than her, Jared adds, “There are people out there living a good life. Who aren’t afraid…who don’t ruin the quiet mornings, the love they carry for those around them, fuck, their jobs - with this much _thinking_. Questioning.“

“That’s what the medication is for, Sergeant. It’ll help you along a little. Just give it time.”

Jared stays silent.

“And remember, again, try to engrave it in those parts of your mind that tell you that you aren’t doing well enough. There are people out there who live an easier life. There are people who live harder, and having better moments than you right now.”

“That’s - “

But Cortese doesn’t seem in the mood to let Jared protest this session, because she leans over her notepad, fixes Jared with her gaze. She talks softly, but with a firmness that makes Jared lose his doubts about what he hears.

“Sergeant, I’m going to go closer to home this time. I don’t usually talk about my life with patients, but I think in this case it might help you understand better.” She smiles. “I have had good stretches since switching to this work. Those were usually when my patients made progress, when there were some good things in my personal life. And I had some so-and-so moments. Can’t call them bad, can’t call them good, either. Just a routine, with nothing moving one way or the other. And - this is important for you to hear - I’ve had weeks, _months_ when everything seemed to go wrong. Among others, one of my patients committed suicide. My back hurt so bad, I couldn’t bear standing or sitting - which in turn made me antsy in meetings. No pain meds helped enough. Then that made me think of all the ways I’m failing. Professionally…on the personal side, forget it, it didn’t even register. Going on a date was something that seemed impossible - I slept here most days. I couldn’t move, not even to my car,” Cortese says. “The point is, at that moment, the sky seemed to come crashing down - but step by step, day by day, with effort, pain, with determination to simply hang on to life, however it is, it passed. I swam to the surface again.”

Jared opens his mouth to reply. Finds no good words. Closes it again.

“You seem so…together.”

Well, he’s not winning any communication prizes soon, they’ve established that.

“Right now, I am. I’ve found a balance in the last few years…not falling as far, taking in every joyous moment I can. Comes with growing older and all that.”

“When will that happen to me?” Jared asks, allowing a smile of his own to spread over his features.

“It’s happening already. You’re searching for the right track, and you’re willing to look at what and where it goes wrong. That’s the step to take before fixing.”

“And can it be fixed?”

It’s a question that has a price - the fear of facing the negative answer.

“You’ve survived days of torture at the hand of the Taliban. I’m confident when I say that a few bad habits won’t be the end of you.”

“Bad habits?”

“The things you’re so attached to - those pesky thoughts. Those gestures and actions that seem to come natural, when in fact, they’re simply mechanisms you’ve developed to protect yourself. Those are all, to an extent, habits.”

Jared hadn’t thought of it like that. He’d seen his way as something set in stone. But when the doctor puts it like that, well…it just seems more intelligent. Because then it can _change._

“You only have to put the work in. Hang on tight, even when it’s difficult.”

Right.

He can do that.

He had offered to run to Antarctica, after all.

He gets out of Cortese’s office vaguely optimistic. Pulls out his phone, sees that he has three messages from Jensen.

He laughs.

Oh, yeah. He’s paying for the favor he called in.

But not in any way he isn’t prepared to do it.

He sends a simple _Done_ to Jensen.

Then he sits down on the edge of the pavement, and lights up a cigarette.

Waits.

Patience. Wasn’t that what Cortese was saying?


End file.
